The Girls With Games of Blood

by Alex Bledsoe

  The T-bird started on the first try, and she pulled the long, narrow shifting lever down until the little indicator stopped over the “D.” It was completely unlike the first car she’d owned, and her left foot still sought the clutch. She eased the vehicle out so slowly it barely raised the dust along the unpaved driveway, and when she pulled onto the highway she soon had four other annoyed drivers bumper to bumper behind her.

  Byron Cocker unknowingly passed Prudence going the opposite direction. He parked the Impala behind his own car in the driveway. He yelled “Bruce?” as he closed the front door behind him and leafed through the mail waiting on the side table. The TV in the den was on, as were the overhead lights in all the rooms. A loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter were out on the kitchen counter. “Bruce!” he yelled again.

  “In my room,” came the muffled voice.

  “Get down here and clean up this mess!” he yelled. Then he went to his own bedroom, undressed, and took a shower.

  As he toweled off, he noted each of his scars. There were the puckered bullet holes: one in the dead center of his chest, deflected by his sternum so that it missed his heart, another in his left thigh, and a final one just above his right wrist. The thin, raised lines on his belly showed where a drunk stabbed him four times, so rapidly that Cocker barely registered the first before the final one drove home. His jaw looked pink and smooth where the skin had grown tight over his reconstructed bone. His farmer tan, which left his torso pale white while his arms and face were sun-browned, only accented these souvenirs.

  By the time Cocker emerged from his room the bread and peanut butter were gone and the lights turned off. Bruce slouched in his dad’s armchair clad only in his running shorts. “Whose Chevy is that in the drive?” the boy said without taking his eyes off the TV.

  “Mine,” Cocker said. “It’s a rental.”

  Bruce turned to inquire further, but did a double take instead.

  Cocker wore a high-collared shirt unbuttoned down to his first bullet scar, with a gold chain displayed just above his graying chest hair. His brown polyester pants were tight, and the stacked shoes added another inch to his already-formidable height. His hair was slicked down, the part ruler-straight.

  “Have you got a date?” Bruce said in disbelief.

  “I’m going back into the city,” Byron said as he checked himself a final time in the foyer mirror. “Don’t wait up.”

  “You do have a date,” Bruce said, his voice tinged with disapproval. He didn’t know when it would be okay for his father to start seeing other women, but he was sure it wasn’t time yet.

  Cocker blushed. “I’m visiting a friend. Gerry Barrister. We used to wrestle together, remember? He’s opened a place in Memphis.”

  Bruce snorted. It occurred to Cocker that their whole relationship could have been summed up in that one contemptuous noise. He said in what he hoped was a reasonable tone, “Son, please don’t cop an attitude every time I talk to you. I don’t have a date, but even if I did it wouldn’t mean any disrespect to your mama’s memory.”

  Bruce didn’t look at him. “Yes, sir.”

  “You and I, we’re all we’ve got. We’re the whole family now.”

  “Yes, sir,” he repeated in the same tone.

  Cocker clenched his fists. The disrespectful little shit deserved another whipping, but he didn’t have time right now. “All right, then,” he said as he left. “Have it your way.”

  “Yeah, I’m fucking Burger King,” Bruce muttered as the door closed. The setting sun blazed through the windows, turning the now-silent room deep orange.

  He pulled a joint from the waistband of his shorts and looked around for a lighter. He sucked the smoke down and held it while the TV played a black-and-white rerun of Gilligan’s Island.

  He’d stayed stoned as much as possible since that night in the woods, trying to keep the vividness of what they’d done from truly settling on him. The thought that it was cold-blooded murder lurked at the edge of his brain, but the dopey haze kept it from moving to the front of his thoughts. Sooner or later, though, he would have to acknowledge it and figure out what, if anything, there was to be done about it.

  Every morning he listened for the gunshot smack of the newspaper hitting the driveway, and rushed to check it before his father woke up. Was it seriously possible that the boy’s body remained hanging from the tree, undiscovered and unmissed? Or had something fortuitous happened, like the rope breaking and wild dogs eating and scattering the corpse? Would that be proof that God truly did look out for him?

  He’d talked to Dave once since that night, but his friend was even more messed up. Dave had been to California earlier in the summer and brought back enough heroin to get him through until the start of the school year; he called it an “ice cream habit,” which apparently meant he would quit as soon as he was sure the trouble had passed. Travis and Tiny had not returned his calls; he worried they might panic and confess.

  There was only one thing to do, he knew. He would have to go see for himself, and if the corpse was still there, he’d have to bury it where no one would find it. Which would involve touching it, a possibility that scared the hell out of him.

  He once snuck into his father’s office and saw crime-scene photos of his mother’s corpse, a sight that gave him nightmares for months. Her face was intact, but the whole back of her head was gone; she looked mildly startled. There was also a huge exit wound just below the hollow of her throat big enough to hold a softball.

  He imagined what the black boy would look like now: distended tongue protruding from swollen lips, eyes bulging and probably swarming with gnats. Insects would be all over the place, flies and midges and other things that normally fed on carcasses. They did not discriminate between humans and animals; they were completely unbigoted. For some reason this made him feel even worse.

  But that would all have to wait until after dark. By then he hoped to be too stoned to get off the couch, as he had been every night since the lynching.

  Then he realized that going to hide the body would also take him close to Clora Crabtree’s house. That had not occurred to him before. Memories of his times with her began to dissipate the dope. He stretched and smiled to himself; maybe his famous daddy wouldn’t be getting any that night, but it didn’t mean no Cocker would.

  Leonardo waited for Zginski behind the Ringside. He’d changed from his usual tank top into a pullover shirt, and felt unaccountably awkward in it. He sat on the curb beside the big metal trash bin, unoffended by the smell and certain that no one would bother him. One more poor black kid getting drunk in the shadow of a Dumpster wouldn’t raise an eyebrow in Memphis.

  Just past sunset Zginski backed the Mustang into the alley and parked facing out, toward Madison Avenue. He emerged wearing a black turtleneck under a tan sport coat, with black bell-bottom slacks. He noticed Leonardo immediately. “Are you waiting for me?”

  “Yeah,” Leonardo said as he stood. He brushed dirt and leaves from his jeans. “I need to talk to you.”

  “You are doing so.”

  “Oh, that’s a good one. Nothing gets past you.”

  “What do you wish to tell me?”

  Leonardo looked around to make sure they weren’t overheard. Even as he did it, he realized it was the kind of thing Zginski might do, and for the first time he understood that level of caution. When he was sure they were alone he said, “I met another one of us. Out in the country close to where we bought your car.”

  “Where your victim lives?”

  “Yep. Remember that house where we asked for directions?”

  Zginski was suddenly grim. “Indeed? Tell me about him.”

  “Her. Her name’s Prudence, and I think she’s Patience’s sister.”

  Zginski was now seriously focused. “Tell me how this meeting came about.”

  Leonardo gave him the short version, and was relieved that Zginski’s concern over yet another vampire popping up apparently canceled out the expected lecture abo
ut the whole lynching incident. “And what did you tell her about us?” Zginski asked when he finished.

  “You mean what did I tell her about you? Nothing. But I let slip that Patience worked here. Sorry about that.”

  “Is this woman planning to make an appearance?”

  “I don’t know. She had a weird vibe going on, like she’d been shut away talking to herself for too long. Very old-fashioned; she reminded me of you, actually.”

  Zginski ignored the comment. “Thank you for providing this information.” He smiled wryly. “And other than the mob execution, how goes your relationship with your new victim?”

  He should’ve known Zginski couldn’t let that pass without comment. “She’s okay, I guess. I see what you mean about the whole experience being intense, but I think I can do better next time.”

  “That is a good realization to have.”

  “How about yours?”

  “The relationship is progressing the way I anticipated. And the results will be as I wish.”

  “Have you done that wolf thing for her yet?”

  Zginski’s smile widened, blatantly displaying his fangs. “You are a persistent devil. What would you say if I told you it was a simple trick of the mind, easily replicated with a bit of concentration?”

  “Is it?”

  “What else could it be?”

  Leonardo closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “Okay, how about we don’t talk about this until you’re ready to stop acting like a damn teenage girl with a secret?”

  “As you wish. Are you staying to watch the evening’s entertainment?”

  “That’s why I put on a clean shirt. Course, I’ll have to stay in the kitchen with Vander and peek through the door. I can’t get into the dining room unless I’m working as a busboy. Tell me, is she any good?”

  “I believe you will be pleased. Her voice is pleasant and she has true musical aptitude.”

  “I bet she just melts when you tell her things like that.”

  Zginski chuckled, and rubbed the top of Leonardo’s head. Leonardo stared after him, openmouthed, as Zginski went in through the kitchen door.

  CHAPTER 23

  BY SHOWTIME THE Ringside was packed. Besides word of mouth from the earlier show, the first ad had appeared in both the Commercial Appeal and Press-Scimitar newspapers, and Barrister even sweet-talked a commercial onto WHBQ during the morning drive show. He’d learned promotion during his wrestling career, and this was no different really, except that hopefully no one would end up bleeding.

  Barrister stood outside Patience’s dressing room. He wore a brand-new suit with a pattern shirt and two gold chains. He had to lean close to be heard over the expectant crowd. “Listen to that. I’ve got people waiting for tables even though they know it’ll be over an hour, and they ain’t waiting for our steak fries, baby. It’s all for you.”

  Patience stroked her eyelashes with the mascara brush. Already she felt the surging, writhing pool of anticipatory energy just waiting to be tapped. “I’ll sure do my best, Gerry. And I appreciate you getting me a piano.”

  “All an investment in the future. You have to spend money to make money. Colonel Tom Parker says that, and he’s a man who knows.”

  She stood and kissed him on the cheek, quickly so the coldness of her lips wouldn’t register. He smelled of Old Spice. “Thank you.”

  “Here, let me look at you.” He held her at arm’s length. She had on a black sleeveless dress that fell to her ankles, the skirt decorated with images of large red flowers and leaves. Her hair was loose, and she wore no jewelry. Her décolletage was prominently displayed. “You look like the bell at the end of a cage match, honey.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “If you’re inside the cage, there’s nothing better.”

  “Then thank you again.” When he continued to stare at her cleavage she said patiently, “Shouldn’t you go introduce me?”

  “Hm? Oh!” He turned and rushed down the hall. The noise swelled when the door opened and faded as it shut.

  Patience shook her head, turned, and yelped. Zginski stood right beside her.

  “Good God!” she cried. “Don’t do that!”

  “My apologies,” he purred. “I merely wished to see you before your engagement began.”

  She could hear Barrister’s indistinct voice. Something he said made the crowd laugh. “Well, you’ve got about ten seconds.”

  “Fauvette explained to me why you did not keep our rendezvous. I wish to express my thanks and appreciation. You seem to have a level of judgment that matches your beauty.”

  She smiled, and choked down the amused and flattered giggle that tried to burst forth. “Thank you.”

  Just then Barrister said loudy, “Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Patience Bolade!”

  She shrugged and strode away, her long hair flying behind her. Zginski returned to the kitchen. He pushed past Vander and Leonardo, who stood in the swinging kitchen door, and emerged at the back of the dining room just as the applause died down.

  Patience stood in front of a shiny black parlor grand piano and bowed. Then she settled gracefully on the bench. Someone let out an appreciative whistle.

  “Stop, you’ll make me blush,” she said. Everyone chuckled.

  She adjusted the microphone, slipped off her shoes, and placed her bare feet on the pedals. Then she began to play.

  It was a familiar song: “Eight Days a Week,” by the Beatles. But her version was a slow, dirgelike meditation, and she sang it as a lover begging hopelessly for her beloved to return. At first there was some restlessness, but by the chorus even that had settled down, and everyone stayed riveted to her. A few people even had tears in their eyes.

  She felt their energy filling her with its power.

  Behind the bar, Fauvette watched with renewed awe. The air thrummed with the combined life force as it made its way to Patience, blending and swirling so that by the time she drew it in, it was one single homogenous stream. Fauvette discreetly reached in front of one of the men at the bar, aching to sense the tingle she’d briefly gotten from Barrister. She expected it to feel like water from a spout coursing over her fingers. But evidently the force could not be physically blocked, because she encountered nothing but air.

  The man reached for his drink and brushed her hand. He jumped, his concentration broken, and glared at her. “I’m not done with this one, sweetheart. Don’t get greedy.” He lifted his drink to his mouth, but spilled some because his attention was already back on Patience.

  Prudence sat alone, at a table near the kitchen doors. It was the only one available for a single diner, and its location should have been insulting. It was perfect, though, because with the room lights dimmed, the shadows hid her from view. The little blond waitress who attended her barely looked at her, which annoyed Prudence no end even though she had no intention of ordering anything beyond the two-drink minimum. She made a mental note that if the opportunity arose, she would repay this unforgivable rudeness.

  Now, though, like everyone else, she watched her sister at the piano, swaying with the music and trilling in that annoying voice of hers. Even after a century, Patience had to find a way to be the center of attention. Her singing voice was as pitiful as ever, full of breathy gasps and shortened phrases when she couldn’t hold the notes. And her piano playing sounded like hippos stampeding down the keys. Even her dumpy, pudgy body was the same, and she still displayed it as if she, not Prudence, were the pretty one. Not even her mother’s constant scolding had ever been able to break Patience’s self-absorption.

  Prudence rested her chin on her laced fingers. She wasn’t disappointed: it was as she’d expected, and secretly hoped. Her sister had not changed at all. This singing in public was just the latest gauntlet cast to the ground. It was as if they were still teenagers, competing over everything. Only this time, Prudence intended to win.

  Then she noticed something strange in the air.

  Zginski nodded that Leonardo should join him.
They stood together in the dark at the back of the dining room, watching the show over the heads of the seated audience. Zginski tried to tell if Patience was indeed drawing energy from the crowd, but except for the unusual silence, attributable to her musicianship as easily as to supernatural means, he saw nothing. Was it possible Fauvette sensed something he couldn’t? Or had he been right, that no matter how attractive she might be, Patience was seriously deluded?

  Leonardo sensed nothing either, and was truthfully bored by this type of music. His attention drifted around the room, idly searching for a woman to replace Clora when her usefulness ended. He might stay within his own race this time: since his lynching he’d felt the undeniable weight of his color more vividly than ever. But would it be more loyal to his race to take on a black victim, or to slowly degrade and kill another white girl? It was a harder question than he usually pondered.

  Suddenly he froze. He nudged Zginski and hissed, “Hey, man, look over there. See that woman by the kitchen door?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s her. Patience’s sister.”

  Zginski followed his nod. He was struck at once by the beauty of her profile. She had a cameo quality, long-necked and fragile, that he seldom encountered in this modern world. Even her clothes seemed drawn from the past, although their style was contemporary enough that they drew no overt attention. Like the rest she was glued to Patience’s every move and note. He watched carefully to see if Patience had spotted her, but she seemed unaware of anything other than her piano.

  There was an empty chair at Prudence’s table. “Stay here,” Zginski told Leonardo, and started toward the woman. But he quickly stepped back into the darkness when the main door opened and Byron Cocker entered.

  Cocker pushed to the front of those waiting for seats. He spotted Barrister at a table beside the stage, the other chairs filled with notables and their girlfriends. He saw no sign of Zginski, even though the Mustang was parked in the back. But there was little Fauvette behind the bar. She emptied an ashtray, then refilled a bowl with pretzels. She looked small, and fragile, and Cocker couldn’t wait to get his hands on her and make her scream.